


Something's Gotta Give

by madcowmama



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Faberry, MIT Britt, brittana fic, quinntana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcowmama/pseuds/madcowmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany’s brief time trip in Empathy sets off two chain reactions, both in Rachel/2013’s timestream and in Brittany/2020’s - tie-ins to my MIT Britt fics, Quinntana friendship fics, lil bit o’ Faberry fics, and SFTF fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something's Gotta Give

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

What happens?

***

This will be Brittany’s most courageous act.

Okay, maybe risking snuffing herself in order to try to help her friends  _then_  was her most courageous act. But since she and her entire timestream  _haven’t_  been dismantled by her temporal meddling, she needs to complete her own circle.

The fact that she did, in fact, return to her timestream confirms what she has suspected for some time now. Timestreams spin off from one another. When a crucial decision is made, the possible timestreams containing that decision spin off from the possible timestreams that do not.

Timestreams don’t stop. Once a potential timestream has become a reality, it continues. This means that nudging Quinn and Rachel together  _then_  won’t improve things for them  _her_ _e, now_. It means that urging Santana to visit her in her first year at MIT won’t magically get them together  _here or_ _now_.

But the possibility of their getting together  _here and_ _now_ still exists. She has to make that decision. Then Santana will have to make a decision.

When a door closes, perhaps somewhere a window opens. 

***

**Part I… 2013.**

It’ll require a major change, but Quinn is ready for it. Drama has become so very tiresome.

Most of her credits would work toward Comparative Literature, so… In a way, she’d like to leave Yale behind, but it’s a known environment, and there’s a certain amount of comfort she gets here. Besides, she’s upped her meds twice, and she’s simply getting a bit more practical about decisions.

She’s teetering on the edge when the least expected text arrives.

Maybe an impromptu break would take the ache down a notch. Maybe a change of scenery could make the stage seem less strange. Maybe. Just maybe. But Rachel?

***

Santana’s phone chimes a text.

_—Can I call now?_

_—K_ , she replies, and the ring she hasn’t heard for months is almost immediate.

"What do you need, Quinn?"

"I got a text from Rachel saying  _Come to New York_.”

"Okaaay…"

"I’m at Grand Central."

"And you called me…?"

"She’s not answering. I need directions."

"You didn’t need all that much direction when we last saw each other.”

"Fuck off."

"Well, you’re in luck. I’m surprising Brittany at MIT this weekend. You can have my room. If you need it. Rachel was passed out on the floor in there last I saw her."

"And you left her?"

"Okay, I did take her to her room before I left."

***

Rachel rouses herself. It takes her several moments to recollect where she is. Where she’s been.  _When_  she’s been. She has no idea how she got to her bed. There are seventeen texts on her phone. One from Santana — _Away for a few days, see ya—_ , and the rest…

From Quinn.

_—Hey, what’s up?_

_—RU OK?_

_—Call me._

_—Rachel?_

_—Rachel, you can’t do this. Please at least text me._

And so on and so on, until:

_—I’m on the next train._

Rachel scrolls to the top, finds the message she didn’t send, and pieces begin to snap together.

 _Brittany_.

The knock at the door brings her back to the present, and she’s there before she has a chance to think.

Through the peephole she confirms it’s Quinn. It  _is_  Quinn.

She opens the door, and they look in each other’s eyes. They are still.

And then they are moving together, the inevitable embrace. No warning shots fired, they clasp each other tightly, no clapping, not frightened, just close, full body contact.

Quinn’s body softens. Her cheek pressed to Rachel’s spreads relief through her belly and to her extremities. The stress, so familiar she’s stopped noticing it, dissipates. Rachel notices and at last invites her in.

Rachel, for her part, is still pretty shocky. Partly on automatic pilot, she offers beverages and invites Quinn to sit. Neither seems able to let go the other’s hand. Both have shiny eyes. There are no words. For once.

***

Quinn shifts her weight on the couch.

They still have not yet let go of each other’s hands. Still they are gazing into each other’s eyes. Then they are still.

"It’s been such a long, long time," Rachel manages.

"I kept waiting. For you to come to me,” admits Quinn.

"We’re still friends though, right?"

“Right.” Quinn looks away, becoming aware that her hand is… sweating.

***

They’re on their second glass of wine, and still few words have passed between them. Nothings, politenesses, social grease.

Quinn needs to be brave.

"I— I’m thinking of quitting Drama," she says, and it takes her a moment to recognize her own double meaning.

Rachel nods, a hundred futures going up in smoke. Some futures they are acting together. Some they…aren’t acting at all, but they are together.

"I’m tired of lying."

Rachel tips her head to the side, a question in her eyes.

 _(Quinn, take heart_.)

"Rachel, I—" she swallows. "Have you ever thought about— me?"

***

Rachel and Quinn lapse again into silence, their gaze unbroken, their hands still clasped, still. The memory of the time trips hits Rachel all at once with almost physical force. Her hand turns clammy. Her face acquires a fine sheen. The reason she’s here, the reason Quinn’s here, is Brittany. Brittany who reached into her heart while she was sleeping and pulled out so much pain, so much love, and examined it all, felt it all, knew her, all of her, in a way nobody ever has before.

Brittany knew.

_(Rachel, be brave. You are powerful. You are in charge of your life. It’s been such a long, long time.)_

She leans her forehead against Quinn’s.

“To be honest,” she says, “Yes. Yes I have. I do.”

***

**Part II… 2020.**

Deep in her browser, Brittany uses the time between Boston and New York to track Santana. It’s been seven years. Seven years of avoidance, seven years of waiting, seven years trying to take a shortcut and ending up taking a long, long way.

It’s so easy to get distracted when subverting time.

_(Ha. Found her.)_

It’ll take another hour and thirteen minutes to reach Penn Station. The noise, the motion, the flow of people inside and places outside make it nearly impossible to sink in, to replenish her own flow. But she has to try.

This will be her most courageous act.

Going to Santana now, after all this time, requires courage, yes, and contrition, and empathy.

It requires love.

Love was never lacking. Touch, proximity, nonverbal communication was. They were always the best together. Like together together, in contact. Perseverance was lacking, in a way, lacking between the two of them, but, meantime, they’ve both learned a lot about standing on their own feet.

Santana used to be the immovable object. Stubborn, stilted sometimes, stuck seeking the easy path, Santana required push after push to gain enough momentum to launch. Brittany, once the irresistible force, provided push after push, then, catapulted by her Santana-planted belief in her own brilliance, launched herself.

And then… remained in orbit.

Until the orbit decayed, and burning, she fell. She is falling yet. She prays she will fall into Santana’s lap and stay there. But what of Santana? Seven years is a long time. She’s probably attached to someone. She’d be crazy not to. She could take her pick. If she wanted to.

Enough.

Enough of that kind of thinking, which Brittany knows, propagates itself into action. Or lack of action.

Today is a day for action. Today Brittany is being proactive. Today she has made a decision. Because of loving Rachel, for that moment, the chill in her heart subsided long enough that her love for Santana, long quashed, has surfaced, and now burns.

***

Quinn packed Santana the world’s best roast beef sandwich this morning. It’s maybe more bread than she should be eating, but it’s delicious, and certainly she can add in an extra hour of spinning tonight. It’s lovely to get these tokens of love from her lover, especially since really it’s Quinn who needs someone to organize her. When Santana is in performance, she can provide that support, but when she’s in rehearsals, it’s all she can do to get up every morning.

It’s been a strange six months, living with a lover, but now, Santana feels strangely safer than she has in a long time. Than she has since…

Than she has since Brittany.

That was so long ago. And they were so young. Surely she’s married by now. Surely she has children. Sometimes Santana wants so much just to call her, but surely she’s changed her number after all this time. Brittany was simply the best. They were always the best together.

***

Brittany shows up just as rehearsal is wrapping. She hangs in the shadows. Quinn shows up too, and Brittany watches as Santana greets her with kisses.

Brittany begins to freeze, to fade away.

But Santana notices the movement in the back and sees her. In seconds, Santana seizes her. Quinn might be having a seizure.

_(It was always them. Quinn has never, ever had a chance with Brittany around. Now it’s just a matter of the details, the timing. Fuck.)_

***

Santana’s world tilts when she catches sight of Brittany. She shifts her gaze between Quinn and Brittany, unable to breathe for a moment, then recovers and wraps her arms around Brittany.

Brittany still can’t breathe. Her mouth opens and closes two or three times before Santana loosens her grip a little.

"Hi," says Santana.

"Hey," says Britt.

Quinn is counting to ten, to twenty, before she says anything.

_(First you breathe. It’s not fair, it’s just not fair, it isn’t fair.)_

"Brittany!" she says at last, trying to smile.

"I— we—" Santana trails off.

"I’m too late," Brittany barely whispers.

"Never," Santana breathes.

Ice floods Quinn’s nervous system.

"I— you—," stammers Quinn, then she gathers herself and throws out, "Why don’t you two get some dinner, and I’ll meet you at home?"

***

What do you say to the love of your life when you haven’t seen her in seven years?

_(Bravery, Brittany. Time to take heart.)_

"Can we just get a slice and take a walk?"

_(That’s not it.)_

They get a slice and start walking. What they need to be doing is talking, but neither of them knows how to break the ice.

Brittany finishes her slice, sucks the grease off her fingers, and takes a deep breath. It is decided. She catches Santana’s hand and looks long into her eyes.

"I— just want you," she says at last.

It isn’t all she wants to say, but having been on the other side of this conversation, she knows it says a lot.

"Britt-Britt, are you crying?"

Brittany nods.

"It’s been a long, long time."

"I know," Brittany croaks. "I kept waiting. Waiting for you to come to me."

***

Santana gets Quinn’s text: — _Going to Rachel’s_.

"I’m getting chilly, and I have to get out of these shoes. Let’s go home."

"Quinn—?"

"At Rachel’s. Where she always goes when she’s mad at me."

Santana takes Brittany’s pinkie in hers and leads the way.

***

The dam is breaking. Inside, Brittany is a mess of swamped debris, churning. Both of them are people she loves. She has to tip her face to the ceiling to detain her tears.

"I do love you, you know I do, but I love her too," echoes in Brittany’s ears.

"Does she know that?"

"I think so."

"I’ll get the first train in the morning."

"Britt—"

"I’ve spent every moment of all this time trying to get back to you, trying to get you to come back to me, and I should have just gone to you. I’ve been wandering the sewers all this time. When I should have just come home to you." The words roll out, and Brittany’s hands rise to her lips as if she could stuff them back in.

It’s Santana’s turn to tip her head to the ceiling.

It’s Santana’s turn to take heart.

Both of them are people she loves.

***

Santana pulls Brittany into her arms. Brittany ends up half in her lap. All of her muscles seem to sigh at once. They laugh. They were always the best together.

For Santana, holding Brittany feels like a ten-ton boulder rolling down a mountain. It smashes through anything in its path, including five-hundred-year-old trees, homes, cars, lives. Inevitable. Inexorable. Insurmountable.

And so comfortable.

Something’s gotta give.

She doesn’t want to hurt Quinn. But that too is inevitable. It was, even if Brittany hadn’t shown up. Their domesticity together is a joke, fraught with tension, as if they both vibrate on frequencies that are just somehow too high and discordant. The sex is lovely, but there’s all the time in between the sex. They are both high-stress, high-maintenance people, and it takes a real effort just to be together. Whereas Brittany… Brittany feels like a down-lined nest, even after all this time. Almost as if no time at all had passed. It is easy to take care of Brittany. It is easy to let Brittany take care of her.

Santana squeezes her arms around Brittany and presses into her.

“You know, I have always loved you the most.”

***

It might be the touch that tips the balance. The tips of Brittany’s fingers graze Santana’s knee. And in that moment, relief floods through both of them audibly. Santana’s eyes go wide, and Brittany’s go narrow. She’s warm, suddenly, to the marrow. Her brow unfurrows, her jaw releases, her cheeks have fewer creases, her mouth no longer pouts but slowly buds into a nascent smile. Their eyes meet. Color rises, they slide their feet closer, and Santana brings her fingers closer still, until their fingers interweave. Brittany knows she ought to leave, but she’s swamped with love she’s refused to feel for seven long, long years.

The fear that’s been clamped around her takes a powder, letting Santana in.

Santana has guarded herself so securely for so long that she’s warded off her open heart and now— she’s walking toward a freight train. She means to take a few steps to the side so she’ll be safe. But today her feet are rooted to the track. Today she must hit it head on.

_(God, she has missed this girl.)_

_(And for her part, so has Brittany.)_

Brittany takes Santana’s hand and presses it into her own breastbone.

“Santana Lopez, I know you’re involved with Quinn, but I love you. I want to be with you. If not today, then someday, I want to be yours. Someday, do you want to be mine?”

Santana sinks into Brittany’s eyes for several moments. The warmth she finds there softens her. She squeezes Brittany’s hand, brings it to her lips.

“I do.”

***

**Part III… 2020.**

Quinn usually walks, but tonight she’s taking a cab. Her knees are weak. A wave of nausea hits her hard, but she keeps it down. She’ll get home, have a glass of wine, order some takeout, and watch some TV. And if she can manage to calm down a bit, she’ll consider her options.

It wasn’t supposed to last.

It was a pairing of convenience.

That’s what they’ve told each other, on and off, for years—what they’ve still been telling each other since Quinn moved in.  _You_ _can’t always get what you want._  It’s become a joke between them, but today… Today it’s not funny.

Maybe now is not the time to be alone.

Maybe…

Just maybe.

***

The TV is boring, the food is bland, and the wine, in  _her_  mouth anyway, has gone to vinegar.

Quinn’s always known her lover loves another. She’s always known she was a case of  _love the one you’re with_. And there’s nothing particularly easy about being Santana’s lover. It’s just that it’s been such a long, long time.

The possibility of Santana and Brittany reuniting had receded.

But with Brittany here, it’s inevitable.

Much as she doesn’t want to be alone, Quinn (kind of) does want them together. At some point. But not now.

Now is not a good time to be alone.

She pulls out her phone.

 _—Brittany’s here_.

_—Do you want to come over?_

_—Really don’t want to be alone._

_—Come over then._

Then Quinn sends one to Santana:

_—Going to Rachel’s._

***

Rachel greets Quinn with a glass of her favorite Merlot, a cheerleader hug, and a kiss on the cheek.

“Rachel, it’s me. Quit the fake stuff.”

“Fake?”

“Don’t razzle-dazzle me. It’s too much.”

“Tell me what you need. Shoulder to cry on, place to stay, someone to drink with…?”

“Just shut up, Rachel, and pour yourself a glass.”

***

They’re on their third glass of wine, and few words have passed between them. Nothings, politenesses, social grease, a few complaints about Brittany’s sudden appearance and Santana’s reaction to it.

"Sometimes, I just want to punch her," Quinn’s words are slightly mushy.

"Why punch, when you’re a genius slapper?" counters Rachel.

Quinn smiles for the first time all night.

"It’s true, I am."

"I know, I remember."

Quinn puts down her glass.

"I remember you."

Rachel smiles, this time. They look in each other’s eyes for several moments.

Quinn shifts her weight on the couch.

She needs to be brave.

Rachel senses her tension.

"It’s been such a long, long time," Rachel prompts.

Quinn considers, presses her lips together, takes a breath. The decision is made.

"I kept waiting. For you to come to me,” says Quinn.

There are several moments of silence. Quinn forgets to breathe.

“ _I_  kept waiting. For  _you_  to come to  _me_ ,” admits Rachel.

This is suddenly a different conversation than what Quinn had imagined it would be.

"Can this count? Now? After all this time? Does this count?" she says.

"It does," says Rachel.

"I don’t want to settle for someone. I don’t want to be settled for. I don’t want to be someone’s (kind of) lover. Don’t I deserve to be someone’s one-and-only?" murmurs Quinn.

Rachel puts down her glass.

"You do."

"Do you think I could be yours?"

Rachel considers, then decides.

"I do."


End file.
